


warmth of quiescence

by orphan_account



Category: GOT7
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Nonlinear Narrative, introspection and melancholy but there's a happy ending, there's no elaborate storyline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 04:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8518495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: His voice was soothing. Different from the others that were harsh and gritty, castigating him with utmost disgust at his wrongdoings. His voice reminded Mark of the dulcet psithurism, a mellifluous melody of nature harmonizing on a midsummer day, the sky graciously tinted in a cotton blue. It reminded him of the simplicity of beauty, like little etches of petite charms engraved on the trunks of trees; like noticing the glittering specks of scintillas integrated within a clique of granite rocks; like sleeping in on a Saturday morning with the warm sun beaming through the windows on you. He always felt warm being near him and listening to his genuine words and sweet voice. It gave him a little hope in the cracked globules of his heart--of what remains, at least.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I basically wrote my blue feelings though through Mark's perspective. This is just a little side thing, but empty spaces will update soon!

Mark has heard it all: the assumptions, the accusations, the suppositions that purblindly vilify his whole being. 

_"You can't do a single thing right."_

His inner world is quiet, a realm that simmers with brimming thoughts that can't be spilled, his mind shackled to his mouth that binds both into a restraint. He feels the world get heavier and heavier as days lethargically pass by in a blurry daze, a dull ache throbbing at his shoulders that seem to get weaker and weaker as his heart becomes despondently wretched. Since when was his mind so fragile, his alacrity so tainted, his ambition so buried beneath the deep vicissitudes of his irreparable self-hatred? How did his confidence warp into self-deprecation, his honesty twisted into guarded deceit of _I'm okays_? 

_"You take everything for granted. Why can't you be more grateful?"_

His expressions become as blank as an untainted canvas when confrontations proceed. He feels as though his mind stops working, the engine jerking to a whole stop when he needed the cogs to turn the most. How, in desperation, he's clawing at anything he can spit to make them go away, but apologies won't cut it. They want more, more, more; explanations, sincerity, a face full of melodramatic contortions that convey the human emotions. No more of the same excuses. Apologies are forced out of him to the point of them becoming empty, as they tell him how to feel, how to react, what to say and do. It was as though every single little thing he did was a crime; they would blow things out of proportions, and it caused him a great deal of trepidation as he went along the day as his normal self--unable to be normal, when he was so caught up in being so cautious and careful in every move he made, and it made him sick, because all the things he did weren't sincere anymore. He just did them for survival. 

_"You don't even mean it when you apologize. I'm always the one to ask for it when you don't take responsibility for what you did wrong."_

What did Mark do wrong?

_"This is basic human decency--common sense. If you can't even say a single thank you, how are you supposed to survive in the real world?"_

_"You never speak. How are we supposed to know what you're thinking?"_

_"Why are you so selfish? Why do you always think about yourself?"_

_"You're so useless--"_

_"--always so passive--"_

_"Don't play the victim--"_

_"Say sorry."_

Sorry.

_"You don't even mean it."_

Mark's heard it all. 

So he doesn't speak, never shows, doesn't allow himself to feel, because whatever he does on his own free will is always seen as an unwatchable crime. It was as though his existence dripped acid droplets of iniquity, his worthlessness a true aspect of his character that's been issued countless of times, and that he was a spineless puppet, seemingly vacant and controlled like a marionette with his limbs attached to invisible strings of his monsters that manipulates him, guilt-trips him into becoming a vessel of sheer depravity. Because that was what he was, right? A puppet. A horrible, shameful puppet. Quietness was an atrocity. Compassion was a transgression. Gratitude was sought for and expected. But then--

"I like being with you." Jinyoung said, his soft smile as beautiful as little pellets of dainty, radiant diamonds, the prominent whiskers creased near his eyes that accentuated his boyish charm, his kindness, and his steadfast humility, "It's comfortable. It's hard to tell what you're thinking about though. You're a mystery." His voice was soothing. Different from the others that were harsh and gritty, castigating him with utmost disgust at his wrongdoings. His voice reminded Mark of the dulcet psithurism, a mellifluous melody of nature harmonizing on a midsummer day, the sky graciously tinted in a cotton blue. It reminds him of the simplicity of beauty, like little etches of petite charms engraved on the trunks of trees; like noticing the glittering specks of scintillas integrated within a clique of granite rocks; like sleeping in on a Saturday morning with the warm sun beaming through the windows on you. He always felt warm being near him and listening to his genuine words and sweet voice. It gave him a little bit of faith in the cracked globules of his heart--of what remains, at least. 

One day, Jinyoung breaks the wall of vocable boundaries and extends a hand towards him amidst the evening, as they sat on the prickly grass by the river and watched as the sun beautifully set, its luminous, glowing hues blending into an amalgamation of vibrant, wondrous colours, "Can I ask you something?"

Mark eyed at his hand momentarily with a glint of hesitancy. "What?" He tentatively reached for the offered hand when Jinyoung beckoned him to take it. They were holding each other's hands now, their intertwining grip soft and gentle, but enough to radiate a placid heat between their palms. 

"Do you like to live?"

Mark stared at him. Jinyoung stared back, his gaze delicate, as if he knew the answer already. 

"It's just that--your eyes," Jiinyoung tightened his grip just ever so slightly, his smile sad, and Mark didn't like that. He wanted to see him smile with absolute mirth, whiskers showing when he smiled big and immensely happy, "your eyes always seem so... dejected. Always. Everyday. Your eyes says a lot when your mouth doesn't." 

_Oh._

The realization being in love with him hit him like a epiphany, a strange mellowness flooding his whole being. 

Perhaps he had fallen in love with Jinyoung from the very beginning, when they first met. Perhaps it was only just now that he's finally aware of the fact that Jinyoung has always seen him as an actual person. He never looked at him with judgment nor with prejudice. Rather, he _saw_ him. He saw through him, saw through his chicanery and self-destruction, saw through his quietude only to witness the despair lurking in the muddles of his mind and heart slivered in fragments of wintry albatrosses. He was the first person to accept him unconditionally--to understand his silence and his solemnity and never questioned the bruises that were scattered across his arms and ribs, like the blooming of wilting flowers still in their budding phase. Since when had he felt this calm around a person without the anxiousness to perform well at everything to avoid being brutally affronted at the tiniest things in scale? 

There was no denial, just a quiet moment of acceptance and understanding. 

Mark looked down at their hands.

"I didn't." He confessed, but a gentle smile worked its way on his face, the stretch of his face muscles aching from the unfamiliarity of a true, earnest smile made from his own volition, "but now I do." 

There was no kiss, no banal declaration of love, not even an embrace, but they knew. They knew with their soft, sincere smiles, their knowing looks and warm, prolonged eye contact, and their interwoven hands that settled between them comfortably as they basked in the easy quietude. Words weren't expected to be spoken, no compulsory apologies--Mark felt a flood of pure freedom and invariable happiness. He wasn't tied down to the words that broke him down into a pile of glass shards made to self-defensively cut. He felt like a person for once, and felt as though he was treated as one. 

It'll take him time--a long time, even--to stop shaking at little mistakes, at automatically apologizing profoundly at the slightest shortcomings, and flinching every time someone moves to hug him. He'll never be permanently okay, but _who_ was always okay in their lives? Mark would learn, through regression and progression, to unlearn all the toxic things done onto him. 

And as he looked at Jinyoung who looked at him with so _warmth_ , he felt hope probe at his heart, and there he learned that perhaps he wasn't broken like he thought all this time, but was merely just incomplete.


End file.
